Six Weeks
by MyPrivateLaughter
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has always liked the idea of John loving him but suddenly their slow burning relationship has taken on a fresh urgency. A marksman out for revenge has given an ultimatum and Sherlock must prove he can loved and be loved. He has six weeks.
1. Week One

Week One

_Baby, you've got the sort of eyes that tell me tales_

_That your sort of mouth just will not say, the truth impales._

_You don't need me but you won't leave me._

_My love's too big for you, my love._

Ingrid Michaelson - 'Sort of'

.

John extends the handle of his small suitcase and rolls it into the living room. "Sherlock, I'm going!" he calls. Sherlock has been lying on the sofa all morning and so John is justified in his assumption that the detective wouldn't discern his departure.

Instead he finds Sherlock Holmes sitting on the floor in front of the door, blocking the exit.

"John," he says, looking up at him seriously, his eyes slightly wild, "you can't go."

John sighs. "'Can't' or 'shouldn't'?" These often seem confused to Sherlock. "There isn't a case, is there?"

"Not as such, no," Sherlock admits, getting to his feet.

"We don't have any social plans?"

"Of course not."

John puts his hands on his hips and tries to look exasperated. "So what exactly is preventing me from going?" He not a sadist, but he does feel a twinge of pleasure in Sherlock needing him.

Sherlock makes a strange gargled groan and splays his hands out in frustration. "Look, I'm going to say that I can't tell you and you're going to think that's ridiculous and not true but it is true and I really can't tell you because of… reasons, so can you just trust me and stay here, please."

John laughs a short unamused laugh. "No."

"Please!" Sherlock steps forwards, making a quick movement with his arm that for a moment seems as if he's going to, what, take John's hand?

He doesn't though. He stops himself and instead does that look. This is the look for when he wants to bend John to his will. He raises his eyebrows and pouts ever so slightly, lowering his face to show John just how beautiful his cheekbones are.

John finds this look particularly frustrating because of how it effects him and because of how Sherlock must know it effects him.

"Don't."

"Please," Sherlock repeats. "It's important."

"I'll be back in a few days."

"Don't go."

Honesty, usually he doesn't even notice when John's gone.

.

* * *

.

_Ten hours earlier…_

Sherlock has been knocked out before, probably an unhealthy number of times. He hates that moment between consciousness and lucidity when nothing seems to make sense in his mind. He blinks at the shapes, colours, faces in front of him.

He's in a – what – warehouse? Who is this man? What is he doing here?

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes. Do you know who I am?"

He's a man that Sherlock doesn't recognise. Tall, blond, fit, army background judging by the comfortable way in which he grips his pistol.

Sherlock rights himself in the seat. Moving makes him aware that he is bound to the wooden chair. Red vinyl cloth reinforced tape with aggressive adhesive backing. Tearable by hand. Ankles and waist, pinning arms to his side.

Sherlock twists his hands upwards. "I don't bite."

"No," the man's voice is deep and unpleasantly serious, "but this makes it easier to shoot you if I get bored."

Power issues. Sadist. "Right," Sherlock says with a tone that he thinks is appropriate to the amount of condescension he's feeling right now, "and how do you expect me to entertain you?"

"By begging me for mercy."

Sherlock can't help laughing. He really can't. It escapes him before he can think better of it.

The man had been pacing, but he comes to a stop in front of him now. "Are you not afraid of me?" he snarls, this thin moustache that hugs his top lip quivering.

"Oh, alright then," Sherlock says, composing himself. "Who are you? The big bad wolf?"

"My name is Sebastian Moran."

Sherlock shrugs as best he can with his arms taped to his sides. "What do you want, Moron?"

"_Moran_."

"Whatever."

"I want you to…" He takes a breath, allowing himself to become calm once again, then continues, "I'm going to make you dance."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Then you shouldn't have taped me to a chair."

There's a look of bemusement on Moran's face. It's as though this man is so far out of his comprehension that he's lost all idea of how to approach this situation. "Don't you want to know why you're here?"

"I've been reliably informed that I'm the type who tends to wind people up," Sherlock explains. "This sort of situation happens surprisingly often."

"Hm." Moran looks as though he can believe this. "I know a lot about you, Mr Holmes. I know what you're like as a person and I know what it is that you do and I know exactly what I'm going to do to make you pay for what you've done to me."

"To you?" Sherlock smiles at this delightful clue. "What have I done to you?" Not physical or monetary. Presumably emotional distress.

Moran grits his teeth and hisses, "You made him do it."

"Ohhhhh…" Sherlock laughs and shakes his head. "Moriarty. That makes sense. The drama."

"Fuck you," Moran barks, his eyes sparking with anger. He takes two steps towards Sherlock, raising his pistol and smacking it sharply down in his face, ripping Sherlock's head around, making his vision blur. "You shouldn't have killed him. He was _better_ than you. Not because he was cleverer but because he … he was capable of so much more. Unlike you, he was capable of love. He was capable of making people love him. That's something you could never do."

Sherlock stifles a yawn. "Are you going to kill me soon?" he enquires.

"I'm not going to kill you," Moran spits. "I'm here to do what Jim always said he'd do."

"Mow the lawn?"

"Burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock nods with a sad smile on his face. "I'll be honest, it was more intimidating when he said it."

"I have people a phone call away with their sights trained on Dr John Watson at this very moment." The man's face has lit into a victorious grin

Perhaps it is this smile or perhaps it is just the shiver of fear that runs through Sherlock's limbs that suddenly makes him feel impossibly angry. "Bad idea," he says.

"How is that a bad idea?"

"Well, perhaps now would be a good time to consider," Sherlock says, ever so slowly in case Moran misses anything, "what happened to the last person who threatened to kill him."

The broad fingers tightened barely perceptibly around his gun. "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?"

"Know," Sherlock corrects.

"No?"

"No, _know_. I know I'm smarter than average. Much smarter in fact."

Moran sneers at him. "That won't help you in the end though. Clever quips and smart reasoning will not save you."

"Perhaps you should've given that advice to your boyfriend."

"You -!" Moran pauses without hitting Sherlock again and tries to reign in his anger. "Are you determined to make me want to hurt you more?"

"I figured I was beyond the tipping point."

Moran leans over Sherlock, a menacing glint in his emerald eyes. "You think I wouldn't kill him?"

"If you'd wanted him dead, he already would be. So I think there must be something more to this. Something else is at play. Am I right?"

Moran nods slowly, a smile on his face. "I won't kill him."

"Changeable."

"I won't kill him," Moran repeats, "if you can prove that he loves you."

The comment ricochets around Sherlock mind, meaning everything but nothing. "What? Why?" he demands.

The sneer turns into a brief laugh then Moran says, "Because he doesn't. I want you to know he died because of you and because he didn't love you, because no one could ever love you."

"You've been practicing this conversation, haven't you?"

"I know how you feel about him. Jim knew he was the way to get to you. But what about him?"

Sherlock sighs heavily. There are so many flaws to this plot that he finds it impossible for a moment to isolate just one. "And how exactly will it be proven?" he starts, with a tone of utter disbelief. "The kiss of true love?"

"He has to say it."

"Come and say, 'I love Sherlock Holmes'?"

"Of course not," Moran responds irritably. "He can't know, he can't even suspect of this, or he'll be killed instantly. He has to tell you, honestly, privately."

"Presumably not entirely privately. You've bugged the flat."

Moran nods. "All he has to do is tell you he loves you."

"Oh please. He's a soldier, not a hormonal teenage girl." Sherlock's pulse is elevated. He can't think about John. He can't imagine him at home now in the flat without wanting to have his hands around Moran's throat. _How dare he?_

"The very fact you think soldier's can't say 'I love you' shows how little you know about people."

"I may not know '_people'" – _he spits the wordas though it disgusts him – "but I know John Watson."

"Then you had better hope you're wrong, for his sake. You have six weeks."

Sherlock's heart plummets. "Seven."

"No, six."

"John's going away for a week."

"Not my problem." And Moran starts to walk away. One step is all it takes. In the time it takes for Moran to move one step away, Sherlock's mind has explored all possible scenarios and knows that John will not do it. He will not say 'I love you' to Sherlock Holmes, that's a dream, not a possibility.

This leaves Sherlock with the ache painful enough to make him want to hurt Sebastian Moran. "You're wrong by the way," he calls. "He didn't love you. Moriarty didn't know love."

Moran's leather boots pause. "You know nothing about him."

"I know enough. I know he laughed at you. I know he found you _funny_."

The looks in Moran's eyes as he turns to look at Sherlock is enough to show that a nerve has been hit. Somewhere inside, this is Moran's fear; this is what he always half believed was true.

"He didn't love you." Sherlock says, ramming a knife into the wound. "Not a chance in hell."

Moran walks back to Sherlock and leans slowly over him, until their faces are almost touching. "Mr Holmes, you know nothing of hell," he breathes. "But you will."

.

* * *

.

Sherlock is really pouting now and when he turns to walk away, John notices the angry bruise on his pale cheekbone for the first time.

"How did you do that?" he asks with a spark of concern. Is this what wanting him to stay is about? Is Sherlock in danger?

"What?"

"Your cheek. That looks really bad." He reaches up to it but Sherlock jerks his head away with a slight frown.

"Oh, I tripped," he mumbles.

John raises his eyebrows to acknowledge that this is a preposterous lie. "Tripped?" It looks like severe bruising, most commonly associated with being hit by a blunt object.

"I fell into the door."

"Right." John lets this slide, as he usually does with these hints of mini-adventures that he wasn't invited to. "Do you want me to look at it?"

"No, it's fine." Sherlock looks momentarily flustered by this offer of assistance. Then he meets John eyes and says with fatalistic seriousness, "Can you just stay?"

John can't help feeling frustrated with himself for now feeling bad for Sherlock. How does Sherlock deserve sympathy? John spends weeks on end in this tiny flat with him. What is a few days? "Can I just go to my friends wedding?" he asks.

"Why?" Sherlock demands, "Why do you want to do that?"

"I'll add that to the list of things to explain to you, will I? Along with public displays of affection, the desire to have children and why some people talk to you on the tube."

"Yes, alright," Sherlock sighs, "human nature, I get it, boring."

"Look, can this mysteriously important thing wait until I get back?"

Sherlock falters. "Well, technically, yes. But there's less chance of it being successful."

"So when you say you 'need' me to stay, it is more of a 'want'," John points out.

Sherlock's face dips into a scowl. "John, don't try to apply logic to the situation. It's really not your forte."

This is just enough for John to take hold of his suitcase and open the door. "And on that note," he says, "I'm off."

.

* * *

.

John is getting the drinks in, but the bar is packed. The groom, Frank, had insisted it wouldn't be a heavy night, what with the whole marriage thing he had to do the next day, but not going out had seemed unthinkable. John checks his phone while the barman ignores him. There's one message from Sherlock.

_I hope you're coming home now. SH_

John smiles to himself and texts back:

_The wedding's not until tomorrow. _

"Excuse me!" he tries calling to the barman, but he still serves the attractive girl first, obviously. John's phone vibrates in his hand.

_Tomorrow night then. SH_

Sherlock isn't the needy type. Actually, he's quite the opposite. He shows nothing but distain towards those who show affection to him or others. John realises there must be something going on with his friend, but isn't sure yet how much he should play along.

_I'll come home when I'm no longer hung over. _

The response is almost instantaneous:

_Don't drink. Come after the wedding. SH_

_Fuck off! JW_

"Is that Bertie?"

John turns to see Frank behind him. Frank is an army buddy who has not been shot, so frustratingly fit still.

"Oh, no, Bertie and I broke up ages ago. It's just my flatmate."

"Sherlock Holmes?"

The phone vibrates again in John's hand and Frank leans over to read it.

_John, I need you. So much more than you need ten jagerbombs. SH_

"He doesn't mean to sound so gay," John finds himself explaining. "He doesn't really 'get' social interactions."

Frank is smiling with amiable surprise. "Oh, so you're not together? Because I read this article in the newspaper -"

"No!" John interrupts. He really doesn't want to know. "We're not gay. We're friends."

"I was wondering why you didn't bring him."

John shudders at the thought of introducing Sherlock to his friends from the army. "This isn't exactly his scene anyway; lots of people mingling. Sherlock isn't the person to invite to a wedding you want to go smoothly." He'd no doubt deduce some uncomfortable truths about most of the wedding party.

"You do talk like he's your husband," Frank points out with a laugh, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

"God, I don't mean to."

"That's what's so funny. Are you _sure_ you're not in love with him?"

John knows he's being teased but he's not really in the mood for it. The truth is painful and terrifying. The truth is that he misses Sherlock, more than is acceptable for someone to miss their friend after less than twelve hours.

.

* * *

.

At home, Sherlock is researching. This is something he's never had practical or theoretical experience of. He knows he can make people trust him, he can make people believe he likes them, but he's never had to make people _love_ him before. And worse still, have them admit it.

How do you make someone say they love you?

Google provides some disappointing results on this subject, which flips Sherlock's mind back to the other alternative to this problem – kill Moran. This is almost as challenging, however. It is particularly hard to hunt down and kill someone who is watching and listening to your every move and has a gun's sight permanently fixed on the one person you care about most.

In a burst of frustration, Sherlock picks up his phone again.

_Your friends are kidding themselves if they think marriage will 'complete' them. Love is nothing but a chemical designed to enslave you into taking care of others. Its only outcome is pain. SH_

After sending the text he jumps to his feet and paces the room aimlessly. It annoys him that John doesn't text back within the next two minutes. Sherlock wants to know what he's doing and that he's safe. Eventually, his phone alert goes off on the desk.

_Frank says hi._

For the next two hours, Sherlock lies on the sofa and thinks. About John. If John does love him already, Sherlock decides, then it would be a simpler step to just have him admit it. Does John love him? In _that_ way?

Thinking is what Sherlock does best, but thinking about John has always been difficult. It's as though there's a fog of uncertainty shrouding the man. And whenever Sherlock tries to peer through the mist, a strange tightness grips his chest and he can feel the rapid thump of his blood through his veins.

Thus, after two hours the best plan Sherlock has been able to concoct is executed with a simple text:

_There's an armed gang in the flat. I'm under the bed. Please come. SH_

An agonising ten minutes later, he gets the response.

_Missing you to. JW_

.

.

_To be continued…_

.

.

_Hello! Long time no see! It took me a_ _while to get my head around how this scenario could work. Hope it's a good idea in reality and not just in my brain ;) Let me know what you think!_


	2. Week Two

Week 2

_Words fall through me_

_And always fool me_

_And I can't react_

_And games that never amount_

_To more than they're meant_

_Will play themselves out_

Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová – 'Falling Slowly'

.

Sometimes John quite enjoys having Sherlock stare at him. Often he feels the detective's eyes on him from across the room, or crime scene. It's not unpleasant, the flutter that John feels in his chest. Today, however, John has been trying to write up a case into his blog and Sherlock has literally been staring at him from the sofa for twenty-three minutes.

It's beginning to get unnerving.

John sighs and stops typing, looking up at his friend. "Sherlock?"

"Mm…?" Sherlock responds, unsmiling, seemingly unaware that he's doing anything out of the ordinary.  
John's face is a tight mixture between a smile and grimace. "Do you have anything on at the moment?" he asks innocuously.

"Not at the moment, no." He's sitting calmly with his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"Right." John gets his phone out of his pocket and texts Lestrade.

_Please give Sherlock something to do. I'll owe you one. JW_

"Who are you texting?" Sherlock asks.

"Harry."

He raises an eyebrow. "You're an appalling liar."

"Mind your own business then," John suggests, turning back to his laptop, trying to ignore Sherlock's scoffing laugh.

"When do I ever mine my own business? That would be so tedious."

"More tedious than this?" John mutters, just before Sherlock's phone begins to ring on the coffee table.

Sherlock glances at it and then scowls up at John. "He's not my babysitter." But he picks up the phone anyway.

.

Sherlock doesn't approve of John's covert means of getting rid of him. He had made the conscious decision to stay within John's eye line for the duration of this ordeal, as though this would sooner or later prompt a spontaneous declaration from John. So far, nothing.

He had an ulterior motive for meeting Lestrade though – advice.

Lestrade was in a, albeit dysfunctional, long-term relationship with another human being. He must know about 'love' and all that kind of thing. Sherlock resented Moran for putting him in this situation, perhaps even more than for his threat to John.

Sherlock kept his cool. He waited until Lestrade had showed him all the evidence. It was when they are going down to the car, Lestrade wanting to take him to the scene, that Sherlock chooses his moment to pounce. "How did you and your wife get together?" he inquires.

Lestrade looks blankly at Sherlock for a moment, as though he doesn't recognise him at all and then says, "What?"

"I'm curious," Sherlock says with a frustrated twirl of one hand.

Lestrade contorts his face in incredulity. "Really?"

"It's research."

"You're… researching me?"

The look of disbelieving amusement grates on Sherlock and he throws out his most scathing look. "No. Even I cannot fathom why anyone would desire a more intimate knowledge of a middle-aged nobody."

"Yes," Lestrade responds mildly, shrugging off the insult, "that's why I look a bit confused, Sherlock."

"It's about relationships. So?" he demands. "How did you end up together?"

"Oh, I don't know, a lot of alcohol I guess." Lestrade says with a laugh. They exit the car park and find Lestrade's car on the road. He looks at Sherlock with uncertainty while the detective takes this statement in. "Look, are you going to come or what?"

"No," Sherlock decides instantly, "I've seen what I need to. I'll think about it." He hails a taxi.

"What? Sherlock!"

"Sorry, Detective," Sherlock says, already halfway inside the black car that's pulled up. "I'll be in contact."

"What's going on?" Lestrade calls as Sherlock closes the door.

"Where to?" the cabbie asks.

"The nearest off-license, please. I think you'll find it's the Oddbins on Horseferry Road."

.

* * *

.

John is eating a bowl of pasta, surrounded by experiments at the kitchen table, when Sherlock staggers into the room ladened with clinking shopping bags.

"Jesus," John says, as his flatmate starts unpacking, placing a red wine bottle next to the white wine followed by a six-pack of larger and a bottle of whiskey, "did you rob an off-license, Sherlock?"

"I wasn't sure what you'd want to drink," Sherlock explains, and John's certain that in his mind this makes perfect sense.

"What makes you think I want to drink at all?" John requests. "Is this some sort of experiment?"

"Yes."

Immediately John knows this is bad news. "What are the parameters?"

"You drink and I examine the output of your sweat." Sherlock is concentrating more on presenting a ludicrous amount of alcohol that gauging John's reaction.

His reaction is disbelief. "Seriously?"

"It's for a case."

"What case?"

Sherlock sighs and looks up at his flatmate for the first time. "It's complicated."

John leans back in his chair and folds his arms. "Why do I get the feeling you're just trying to get me drunk?"

"Why would I want to do that?" Sherlock pulls off innocent very well.

"I don't know." John shakes his head and continues with his dinner. "You're not going to take photos are you?"

"I need to know the dissolved solids that are excreted in your perspiration."

"Ok, fine, put the beers in the fridge. _Not_ next to your stuff."

.

They play poker for a while, with Sherlock simultaneously wiping with floor with John, recording the volume of alcohol he consumes and taking the odd swab of sweat.

"I can't do this," John declares, after a while. He's already feeling foggy headed and is no longer able to focus adequately on his cards, let alone consider what game Sherlock may be playing. "Poker is over."

"Over?"

"Over," he confirms.

Sherlock huffs and leans back in his armchair. "You're a sore loser."

"Urm, pot, kettle, black?"

They end up playing Truth or Dare, or at least a Sherlock Holmes version of Truth or Dare. 'Truth' as meaning something in accordance to reality, he had pointed out is a relative concept. After a lengthy discussion about objective reality and the consensus theory of truth, John accepts that all 'truths' will be viewed in mind of their inherent approximations, incompleteness and partiality.

"You're sort of taking the fun out of this game," John laughs, leaning back on the sofa.

Sherlock sneers at him. "Is this really considered to be fun?"

"To teenagers, yes, definitely." John's mind flickers back to those rowdy and debaucherous nights in this Kings College halls. "Is this really the first time you've played it?"

"Is that really unimaginable?" Sherlock says, irritably.

"What do you want then?" The question rolls off John's tongue with relish. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

John decides to ease him in gently and so goes with: "Describe when you first shared a romantic kiss with someone."

"Dare."

"Alright then," John acquiesces with drunken graciousness. Sherlock has leant over and is sitting with his elbows on his knees. He is obviously taking this game with his usual solemnity. "Take a photo of yourself playing the violin, wearing the deerstalker and _only_ the deerstalker, and post it on your website."

Sherlock's glare only makes John laugh more.

"Will any of the truths or dares not involve sex or nudity?" the detective demands.

John considers this carefully then says, "I think that may be the key ingredient to the game."

"We'll play something else then. Monopoly."

"No, thank you," John says resolutely.

"Why not?"

"Because we won't finish it. No one has ever finished a game of Monopoly. Ever. We'll play until I pass out in a drunken stupor and you'll crown yourself victorious."

Sherlock accepts this with a shrug of the shoulders. "Chess then."

"You think I'm capable of playing chess? I've had three beers and two gin and tonics, Sherlock." John realises at this moment that he does want to play truth or dare with Sherlock. Because he's turned into a teenage girl. He really has. He hasn't felt this preoccupied or sensitive about someone since Rebecca Dawking in Year 10, and she wasn't nearly as pretty as Sherlock Holmes.

"Alright, Clu -"

"No. _Not_ Cluedo."

"Fine!" Sherlock cries, throwing his hands up in disgust. "But no sex questions."

"Now that just makes me even more curious. What have you got to hide?" John gives what he hopes is a cheeky grin, which Sherlock stares passively at. "Truth or dare?"

Sherlock grimaces and says, "Truth."

Now that sex is off the menu, John flicks through his more mundane queries about Sherlock. "Do you think you'll ever have children?"

"No," Sherlock responds instantly.

John, for no discernable reason, feels a little hurt. "No? Why not?"

"'Why not' is a long explanation. Why don't you tell me why I should? I can't think of anyone less suited to parenthood."

"That's stupid," John responds huffily. "There's Mycroft."

Sherlock laughs. "True."

"Just give me three reasons then."

"Do you want to have children?" Sherlock asks, the thought obviously seeming alien to him.

John feels the hot drunken blush rise up his neck. "I'd have to find someone who'd want to… you know, first."

"I'm sure you could pick up a willing volunteer," Sherlock says, waving this comment aside.

"What are your reasons then?"

"Many."

"Hit me."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and then begins at breakneck speed, "Obviously I lack the inclination necessary to produce offspring in the first place, let alone maintain a meaningful relationship with a potential mother. Also I am incredibly self centred and unable to care for others' physical or emotional needs. Adults with average intellect frustrate me so I imagine a child would be unbearable. And I am not a good role model. People shouldn't have to grow up to be like me."

"No," John says, shaking his head, probably a little more than was necessary, "that's not true."

"Which part?"

"Most of it. But especially the last bit." Sherlock looks at John in a way that makes the doctor feel a tingling sensation in his outer extremities. He clears his throat. "Ok, why are we talking about this anyway? Neither of us are going to become parents any time soon. I hope."

"You started it."

John smiles, finishing his drink in one gulp. "Actually, I think you would have a lot in common with a child. And I don't mean your boyish charm."

The inquisitive look on Sherlock's face makes John burst out laughing.

"So, dare?" Sherlock suggests.

"Pardon?"

"I assume you'll be opting to do a dare."

John nods, not wanting to know how Sherlock has deduced this fact.

"Make me a coffee."

John sucks the air through his lips, considering his flatmate with laughing eyes. "I think you might be missing the point of this game."

Sherlock looks unphased, as if the point of the game is far from what he considers relevant. "I want a coffee."

"Alright," John says and gets unsteadily to his feet. "But while I put the kettle on, truth or dare?"

"Truth."

There's something about standing up that always makes John realise how much he has drunk. Sherlock would probablygive him the equations for the physics behind this phenomenon but John's not really that fussed. He just wants to get into the kitchen without falling on his face. "Do you, urm," John hasn't thought of the rest of the question, "do you… I know. What do you fear most in the world?" He clicks on the kettle and hears the noise of Sherlock scoffing. "What?"

"Please try to be vaguely insightful with these questions, John."

"What's wrong with that question?"

"Nothing, nothing at all if you're planning to be a contestant on Blind Date."

"Out-dated pop culture reference," John mutters to the mug cupboard.

"What do you want, a one word answer? Is level of fear an exact calculation that can be quantified? Can the things I fear be ranked with each fitting into a position on my scoreboard? That's ridiculous. How could we ever know what I fear most in the world anyway? I haven't experienced all types of fear."

"Ok! Ok!" John leans against the work surfaces while the water boils, trying to keep himself as vertical as possible. "What is one thing that you have experienced that sticks in your mind as particularly scary and something you would not like to repeat again?"

"Define 'scary'."

"Frightening!" John doesn't attempt to keep the frustration from his voice. "Terrifying! Made you shiver and your heart race. Please don't say sex."

Sherlock looks conflicted by his desire to play by the rules and his unwillingness to disclose this particular fact. "Well, I suppose I could say, baring in mind the relativity of the concept -"

"Just say it, Sherlock." The kettle has boiled but John ignores it while Sherlock takes this leap into the realm of intimacy.

Finally, Sherlock says, as blasé as he can muster, "On the roof, of course."

This isn't what John had expected. "What? Worse than HOUND?"

"It's your turn now," Sherlock says darkly. "My dare for you is -"

"Wait! I want to know about the roof," John says. "What about it particularly was scary? Jumping off it?"

"If it is in the rules that I should answer any questions relating to the original answer truthfully as well then you really should have mentioned that before we commenced play."

John pours the coffee, giving him time to get over this disappointment. Sherlock's explanations of what had happened on the roof of St. Bart's on that day had been short and succinct. Which part had terrified him? Moriarty's suicide? His plan not working? Falling to his death? As John hands Sherlock his drink and sits back down, he is attempting to concoct a question that would bind Sherlock to answering all these truthfully.

"Thank you. Your next dare can be -"

"No," John interrupts. The alcohol is making him reckless and he wants to do something to catch Sherlock off balance. "I'll take a truth."

Sherlock doesn't seem too surprised. He smiles and says, "I know everything about you anyway."

"Rubbish!" John laughs. "You don't know… the name of my first teacher."

"And I don't want to. I know everything I _want_ to know about you. You're not exactly a riddle. The thing about ordinary people is that they are so predictably ordinary."

John rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. "You asked about me wanting kids earlier."

"I was making conversation."

"You were not. Quit being facetious."

"I've never been facetious in my life," Sherlock says petulantly.

"For a genius you have an incredible lack of self-awareness."

"Let's stop this." Sherlock looks suddenly serious. "This is a stupid game designed for idiots with pathetic lives. We are able to talk like adults without an ultimatum to response."

"Tell me, then," John says. "Tell me about the roof."

Sherlock sighs and then takes a deep gulp of his coffee. "I will tell you, John. But not now and not like this."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Now drink some more."

.

When Sherlock gets back from the toilet, John is sitting on the floor with his back to the sofa, his eyes closed. "John." He kneels down in front of the doctor and shakes him by the shoulders. "John, are you ok?"

"I think," John says, his head lolling backwards, "I am a _little_ drunk."

"A lot," Sherlock corrects.

"Are you going to collect my sweat now?" He says it in a childish voice that Sherlock rarely hears from John. He's not sure how he feels about it.

"You're not sweating."

John feels his own brow. "No. Do you want me to sweat? I'm sure I could sweat if I tried really hard."

"I'm sure you could devise some fantastic ways of making that happen."

John's eyes narrow and a grin spreads across his face. "I bet I could think of more ways than you."

Sherlock realises that John is sitting forward so that they are closer together suddenly. "I highly doubt that. My brain function surpasses yours even without the current advantage." Sherlock doesn't move away.

A slight groan escapes the thin wisp of John's lips. "God, I wish you were more drunk right now."

"Why?"

John puts one hand on Sherlock's knee and raises an eyebrow. "Take a guess, detective."

Sherlock quickly glances down at the hand, confirming to his brain that it is in fact there. "I never guess," he murmurs.

John smiles and closes his eyes, their noses almost touching. "Yes, you do."

The instant their lips touch, Sherlock realises that he's made a mistake. The time that he spent thinking that he found no enjoyment in kissing was time when he was wrong.

A thrill rushes through the mechanoreceptors, electrochemical impulses traveling from one neuron to another, crossing synapses - electrical, chemical, electrical – eighty metres a second, bursting into his brain with a victorious detonation, leaving only one thought clinging to the edge of his consciousness:

_I want more._

Sherlock grasps the back of John's head and holds him tighter, tasting the bitter, alcohol of his tongue. John's hands are low, lower than Sherlock let people touch him, a place he quickly reserves just for John Watson. A kiss that felt bewildering a second ago suddenly feels necessary for survival and Sherlock can see no other way forward but to let the doctor push him down onto his back on the carpet.

"John," he moans, not in protest, just to remind his friend of his identity.

John pulls one hand through Sherlock's hair, sending shivers up his spine. This is it, Sherlock thinks, as their bodies press close together, John lowering his head and nipping the skin of his neck, this is why people live their ordinary lives so ordinarily.

But then it ends.

"Oh god, Sherlock…" John pulls up and sits back on the carpet, leaving Sherlock feeling exposed. The doctor puts his head in both of his hands, a signal that could not be misinterpreted, even for someone other than Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just lays there, frozen to the spot where John had kissed him. This is a new part of ordinary that he does not know how to react to.

"I am so bloody drunk," John points out, sounding deeply frustrated with himself. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock says nothing.

Eventually, John looks at him. His hair is ruffled at the front and his cheeks are deep red and now that Sherlock know what it is to kiss those lips, that's all he wants to do.

"Sherlock," John sighs. "I'm really sorry."

"That's… ok." He says it slowly because he hasn't quite decided what John is sorry for.

"My head is spinning. I don't think I can carry on, with your experiment I mean."

Sherlock sits upright and looks intently at John, praying he'll understand, hoping that somehow he'll see all the trouble they're in. "There was no experiment."

John closes his eyes as if this is too confusing to comprehend and shakes his head slightly.

So Sherlock does the brave thing, because John Watson had kissed him, he reaches up and touches his friend's cheek. "John," he says, with his voice soft and deep, "the truth is- " deep breath "- I wanted to feel what it would be like for you to kiss me. And I think I do enjoy it."

John laughs to himself, his eyes still closed. "That's the most… romantic thing I've ever heard."

"Good."

.

* * *

.

John's phone vibrates on the bedside table as he gets a text, forcing the unbidden consciousness upon the doctor.

John has no idea how he got into his bed. His tongue feels like he's been licking a carpet and there seems to be a military coup occurring in his stomach. He groans and curls into a ball in his bed sheets. "I'm really getting too old for this."

John checks the text but it's from an unknown number and makes no sense. He thinks of calling Sherlock to get him some painkillers, or at least a bucket to be sick in, but considers it's unlikely his flatmate would bother. In true blamer style, John decides it is Sherlock's fault that he feels this way.

Resentment is cast from his thoughts, however, when an image flashes through his mind of Sherlock being pushed down onto floor with a strange look in his eyes. It's like a punch in the already sensitive stomach when John realises it had been him doing the pushing. It had been him holding onto Sherlock and tasting his skin.

John licks his lips and wonders if it's his imagination that there's still some Sherlock there, over the taste of stale gin.

It really had been like one of those old university night, getting pissed and making out with someone in an enamoured haze. Except this hadn't been some girl he didn't know or care about. This had been Sherlock Holmes.

"You're awake," Sherlock comments.

John spins around in bed and sees him standing in the doorway, fully dressed and calm looking.

"Sherlock!" he splutters, sitting up, his head pounding as though he's being hit with a cricket bat from the inside. He can't think of a time when he's seen Sherlock in his room, though there have been missing items that have mysteriously made their way into Sherlock's possession. "What are you doing?" John realises this sounds a bit rude as soon as he says it.

"Oh, just looking." Sherlock shifts awkwardly between feet, putting his hands on his hips.

John screws up his face to show how weird that sounds.

Sherlock elaborates by saying. "I've heard that choking on your own vomit makes for an unattractive corpse."

"I wasn't that drunk."

Sherlock gives him a wry look. "You don't want me to bring you any painkillers or a sick bucket then."

John nods. "I do want that, Sherlock."

They smile at each other just long enough for John to think the phrase 'we need to talk'. "Urm…" he begins, "if my memory is correct…"

"Yes," Sherlock concurs, "you kissed me."

"And you kissed me," John responds, more aggressively than intended.

"Well! I'm glad we cleared that up." Sherlock looks like he's going to leave so John clumsily tries to continue the conversation.

"Do you, I mean, was that what you… Hm." He bites his lips then just says it. "Do you want to kiss me?"

Sherlock frowns slightly. "Right now?"

"Yes, or anytime, really. Is that a thing you're interested in?"

Sherlock is looking painfully blank. John really just wants to know where he stands. If it's a rejection, that's fine, he'll just crawl back inside his shell.

No, that's not true. He doesn't just want to know where he stands. He wants Sherlock. He wants all of him. He wants him more than he's ever wanted anyone in his life.

Sherlock's blank look becomes more of a grimace and John's heart sinks. "I suppose," Sherlock mutters, as if it is painful to say, "you could say it was enjoyable."

John smirks and then laughs. The pain in his head has abated temporarily as thrilling chemicals rush through his body. "Masterly use of passive voice!" He wants to touch Sherlock but hesitates before doing anything to shake this new turn in their friendship. "From what I remember, you weren't so passive last night though."

Sherlock pouts but John knows he is happy. That is one of John's secret powers. Even when Sherlock isn't jumping up and down, he can sense when happiness is radiating from the detective. "I'll get that paracetamol."

"Wait, I just got a text from a withheld number. Do you know what it means?"

John hands the phone over and Sherlock's face seems to freeze as he reads it. His lips part slightly then he closes them into a tight grimace.

"What?" John asks. "Who's it from?"

"No one." Sherlock snaps out of his reverie and tosses the phone down onto John's bed. "Delete it."

"Alright," John says, but he has the uneasy feeling that Sherlock isn't telling him something. This isn't new. If Sherlock told John everything that went on in that head of his then there wouldn't be much chance to breathe. John just hopes as he deletes the text that it isn't something important.

But surely there's no reason to worry. How could the words _672 hours_ be important?

.

.

Dun – dun –DUH! I mean,_ To be continued…_

_._

_._

_This took a million years to write, sorry! I was attempting to make it _not_ the most cheesy thing in the world ever. What do you think, on the cheese scale? I mean, Truth or Dare is pretty immature cheese. But then what is gratuitous romantic fan fiction without a portion of cheddar? _

_Well, I hope you enjoyed it anyway! 3_


	3. Week Three

_NB. Yes, I owe you an apology for not updating this for a million years. I know it's really stupid but I was a little down heartened by not having so many reviews for this story… But I'm over it! In a very Johnlocky mood, you know how it is. I also may have written an X-rated scene but not sure where I should upload that! Suggestions would be welcome, if you're up for that kind of thing!_

_So yeah, sorry. And I understand if you don't read this on principle because I am rubbish. _

**Week Three**

"So, Miss Taylor," Sherlock scowls across the living room at the client, "you're trying to convince me that your brother went missing before midnight on the Thursday and that you had not seen him for five hours before that. Not even for milk and cookies? I'm not buying it."

The seven year old starts to cry.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to let her in in the first place but John had insisted on not only inviting her up to the flat but making her orange squash and letting her sit on whichever chair she wanted to. And while John called little Lucy Taylor's concerned parents, Sherlock had been forced to listen to the account of her big brothers 'mysterious' disappearance after playing with some magical toys.

"Henry broke your fairy doll, didn't he?" Sherlock presses, leaning towards the crying child. "That's why you're here. You couldn't control your anger, but when he ran off into the night with his little suitcase packed, you realised that magic could make a convenient alibi."

"Sherlock!" John gasps, stepping back into the room with a disbelieving look on his face. He immediately moves forwards and wraps his arms around the girl in an instinctive and natural gesture that makes Sherlock feel an inexplicable ache in his chest. "What did you say?"

"The truth," Sherlock states, turning nonchalantly back to his computer. "Miss Taylor would have to face up to her actions sooner or later."

"Later," John growls. "Later would have been better. She is _seven_." He hushes and comforts the child until she hiccups and gasps her way from her tears.

Sherlock feels a mixture of uncomfortable emotions. He's mildly jealous of the child in John's arms. He's also touched by John's tenderness. Equally he is frustrated by John's anger and blatant disappointment. Mostly though, Sherlock is concerned.

Emotional relationships are really not Sherlock's area, something that has only become more apparent over the last week. There have been a couple of briefly intimate moments, when something had seemed as if it might happen between them. John had even held Sherlock's hand for a short time, but Sherlock had frozen and hadn't known what to do. John had just let their hands slide a part and Sherlock spent the next five hours attempting to discern what he'd done wrong, or at least what he hadn't done right. It was no use though. It just isn't his area.

This would have been acceptable before, but now Sherlock couldn't just let them drift back into relaxed friendship. He had less than four weeks left for John to say that he was in love.

"Sherlock, apologise," John is now demanding, as far from a declaration of love as possible.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm sorry, Lucy," he grumbles. "I'm fairly sure you're brother is at his friend Tyrone's house anyway." He gets to his feet and picks up his coat.

John looks up and Sherlock tries not to look at those accusatory eyes. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

He's going to have to call in reinforcements if he's going to solve this puzzle.

.

.

"Molly," Sherlock says as the morgue attendant backs through the door into the lab. She jumps and her eyes are just startled enough to satisfy Sherlock. He holds the door open and she puts her files down onto the side, hiding her flustered blush.

"Oh, hello! How are you?"

Sherlock ignores the inane question. "Molly," he instead says, stepping close towards her, "I need you, as a woman."

"W - what?" she responds, he eyes widening.

"I need to know about love and I thought you'd be able to teach me. Will you?" Sherlock is using a deep voice, the one that usually makes Molly reasonably pliable.

Molly does seem appropriately on edge. "I… What exactly do you mean?"

"Love;" Sherlock explains, only a little frustrated that Molly can't just get it, "a part of the 'human experience' that I've managed to avoid until now. I assume you have some understanding of it and would like you to share this with me."

Molly swallows and then ventures "Is this for a case?"

"Yes, sort of."

"And you want me to, urm, tell you about love?"

"Specifically the best ways to make someone love you and to have them admit it."

Sherlock sits down on a lab stool and turns expectantly to her.

"Why?" She looks hurt. Why would she be hurt?

"Well, it's complicated and confidential." Sherlock isn't sure if his gag on the subject is extended beyond John but he's not going to take any chances. Molly shouldn't really need to know anyway.

"No, why would you speak to me about this?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Lestrade is incapable of managing his marriage so I assume he's useless and I can't mention it to John. I thought you'd know the most about this sort of thing."

"No," Molly says abruptly. Sherlock can't discern instantly if she's annoyed or upset. "You're wrong. I don't know about this sort of thing. How would I know about making someone fall in love?"

"I…" Sherlock begins, for once without really knowing what he's going to say.

"Ask Mrs Hudson. You've heard her stories. Actually, I've got to go." An obvious lie, even without the high-pitched voice and lack of eye contact. Before he can say anything else, Molly is halfway out of the door. "Good luck. With the case I mean."

Sherlock is left in the empty lab looking bemused. What had he said?

.

.

Mrs Hudson is doing a crossword in front of her soaps when Sherlock enters.

"Mrs Hudson, I need to ask you some questions," he says, in greeting.

"Oh, hello dear!" She puts down her crossword and gets up.

"Simply put," Sherlock explains, as Mrs Hudson makes her way into the kitchen, "I need to know how one would get someone else to say he or she is in love with one."

"Pardon? I'll put the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Sherlock bites back his frustration. "Yes. Please. I'd also like to know how I could get someone to say they love me."

"Oh," Mrs Hudson says, drying some mugs from the draining board, "Who?"

"It's a theoretical matter," Sherlock responds, "for a case, not actually me."

"Have you taken him on a date yet?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the innocuous woman making him a cuppa. Is she trying to catch him out? Catch Sherlock Holmes out? "Who?"

"It's always the first thing to do. It will let him know that you're interested in him and it'll break the ice."

"There is no ice to break," Sherlock says, a little sulkier than he had intended.

"Now, I can't recommend double dating enough. It's perfect for getting to know someone without the pressure of one-on-one."

Despite himself, Sherlock is listening.

"The conversation is much less likely to lag and he will see your fun and social side." She hands him the cup of tea with a smile and a shrug, "…well. Why not take that lovely young detective friend of yours. He's married, isn't he?"

"Lestrade?" Sherlock scoffs. The image of a double date consisting of himself, John, Lestrade and his wife was just too ridiculous.

"I'm only suggesting, dear!"

"Any other… suggestions?" Sherlock hears himself ask, feeling like a pitiful fool.

"You know what, I'll have a think about it, Sherlock. You come back to me tomorrow when I've had time to recap my experiences."

.

.

"John. John?"

"Hm?" He doesn't look up from his book.

"John, I need fresh air. Let's go out tonight."

"Fine."

Sherlock takes a breath and then says it: "Where would you like to go?"

This does make him look up.

"Where would _I_ like to go?"

"Yes, where would you like to go?"

John smiles and cocks his head to one side. "Is this a _date_?"

"I don't know," Sherlock says, feigning disinterest, "maybe, yes."

John's smile widens.

"What?" Sherlock demands.

"No, nothing!" He laughs in a not unpleasant way. Sherlock isn't sure if John is mocking him or not. "I don't mind where we go."

"Well then, should we go to the Chinese?"

"No, not the Chinese," John quickly says. "Let's go to that pizza place."

"Hm. So you do mind then," Sherlock can't resist stating, though he's aware it gives him a juvenile air of petulance.

"Obviously, yes." They look at each other for a moment and Sherlock fails to discern what John is thinking or predict what he will say. "Should I dress up?" he asks.

Sherlock pulls a face. "Is that a necessary constituent?"

"Of a date?"

"Yes." He realises that he doesn't like that word at all. Why does John keep saying it? What does it even mean 'date'. What a ridiculous convention.

"Well, no, that's why I'm asking you."

Sherlock wonders when he became the one setting the rules. He feels very unqualified for this job. "Oh, I don't care," he says.

John closes his book and gets to his feet. "I'll have a shower then. Fancy joining me?"

"I… urm…" Sherlock splutters.

"I was joking," John says, walking out of the room. "Don't have a heart-attack."

Sherlock watches him leave and then stamps his foot down angrily on the floor. What is wrong with him? He has never been that person, the person who doesn't know what to say. His brain usually functions at a speed incomprehensible to those around him but with these sorts of things he is suddenly becoming aware of what it's like to be a normal person, or worse still, a person of below-average intelligence. Does John want him to go into the shower with him? Is that what he really wants or was it actually a joke? Why wouldn't he want that? Or do they need to have their 'date' first?

Coming to no conclusions on these queries, Sherlock sulkily goes to his room to pick out a shirt to wear.

"So," Sherlock says, interrupting the awkward silence after their menus are taken away. He has decided that he is going to take control of this situation. That is what he usually does at any given time so that must be what John likes. "What is it that people talk about on dates? Normal people, I mean."

"Do you want to talk like a normal person?" John smiles.

"I'm curious."

"I suppose," John says, pouring red wine into Sherlock's glass, "normal people talk about themselves, their interests, their family and friends…"

"That sounds -"

"Tedious?" John suggests.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I was going to say 'needless', but both are true."

"How is it needless?"

"We know those things about each other already."

John looks a little stunned and bemused by the statement. "Sherlock," he says, "I know next to _nothing_ about you. Enigma is your thing."

Sherlock wonders if John is being playful or honest. Not that he'd spent much time thinking about it, but Sherlock was pretty sure that John knew him better than anyone else. Even Mycroft. Especially Mycroft. "You know my interests," he points out.

"More like 'interest'. Crime."

"It's a broad field. And you know my family and friends."

"I only know your friends because I am literally your only friend."

"Exactly."

John sighs and leans back in his chair. "I know Mycroft but I don't know anything about the rest of your family. I have no idea what you were like before we met."

That is not a bad thing, Sherlock thinks. He wonders briefly what he would be like now if they had never met. It doesn't bear thinking about. "You want to know about my childhood?" he sneers.

"Well, no, maybe not. I can't even imagine the dysfunction."

"No, you can't." Sherlock decides as he says this that he doesn't want John to. Sherlock doesn't want to break John's image of him with any sort of reality. "Is that something… Do you really want to know?" If it will make John say that he loves him, Sherlock knows he is willing to share anything.

Before John can answer, and before Sherlock can deduce what he's about to say, they're interrupted by a familiar voice.

"John! Sherlock! Fancy seeing you two here!"

Sherlock doesn't turn around but hisses to John, "Did you tell Mrs Hudson where we were going?"

"I… yes, I did. Why?" But their conversation stops being private there as Lestrade arrives at the table, his wife in tow.

"Of all the pizzeria's in London…" Lestrade is saying as John shakes his hand.

"Yes," Sherlock sighs, "_fancy that_."

Lestrade's wife is wearing a completely unflattering dress in an alarming shade of green. She is covered in an overpowering amount of perfume in an attempt to mask that she hasn't had a shower since she went to bed last night and there is lipstick on her teeth when she smiles down at Sherlock.

"I don't suppose you remember me," she trills, "we met at Greg's office -"

"Yes." Sherlock looks away, the frustration too much to bear, but John kicks him beneath the table. "Lovely to see you again," he adds, through gritted teeth.

"Well," Lestrade says, "should we pull up some chairs?"

"Urm, yes, of course," John says, amiably enough, but Sherlock knows that they're both annoyed by this turn of events. The difference being, of course, that Sherlock knows exactly who is to blame.

Before their starters have been delivered, Sherlock is already considering impaling himself on his cutlery. He shares many bored and frustrated glances with John, who is being nauseatingly polite in response to Mrs Lestrade's inane conversation. In fact, he even seems to be enjoying himself when the conversation shifts to the subject of his ever-popular blog.

"You haven't updated in a while," Mrs Lestrade comments.  
"You follow it, do you?" John has a gleam of gratification in his eyes.

"Of course! Greg reads it out to me. He thinks it's great, don't you, really funny."

"Well," Lestrade shrugs, "it's alright."

"So, have you not been up to much recently? Not had any exciting case?"

John glances to Sherlock, who just sighs and looks away.

"We haven't been at our busiest recently," John admits. "Though we did have a client this morning."

"Oh yes?" Mrs Lestrade leans forward in her seat, desperate for the scoop.

"Yes, a seven year-old girl!"

There's appreciative laughter at this.

"God knows how she knew who we were. Do they use the Internet at that age?"

"Of course they do!" Mrs Lestrade remonstrates.

"Ours were using our credit cards on EBay by the age of three," Lestrade adds.

"She must have found our address on the website, anyway, when her brother went missing."

"Did you manage to get hold of her parents?"

"Not before Sherlock made her cry, I'm bet," Lestrade smirks.

"You know him well."

John meant it as a joke but Sherlock can't help scoffing at the suggestion. Lestrade knows nothing about him at all otherwise he would be in the process of pissing off right now.

He can see John looking at him warily. The doctor doesn't want a scene and Sherlock is really trying his hardest not to make Mrs Lestrade cry. Not for her own benefit, of course, but he has the feeling John won't be in the 'I love you' mood if Sherlock sends the Lestrades packing the best way he knows how.

"You two don't have children then?" Mrs Lestrade asks artlessly.

Lestrade is grinning between them both and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"I, we, _no_," John stammers, "neither of us do." He looks across the table at Sherlock and there is a moment of perfect clarity between the two of them – they need to get out of this restaurant. John excuses himself and goes to the bathroom.

_Just tell them that this is something urgent to do with a case and we have to leave right now. I'll try my best to act surprised and exasperated. JW_

Sherlock quickly replied:

_You're an awful actor. SH_

Then he looked up at Lestrades, trying not to be too pleased with himself. "That was Mr Robertson," he explained. "An urgent meeting about his Swiss valet." He gets to his feet.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," Lestrade sighs.

"Excuse me."

John is coming back across the restaurant looking totally guilty. "What's going on?" he asks.

"We're going, John."

"What? Why?"

But Sherlock just continues walking. Outside he hails a cab, which pulls over just as John joins him on the pavement.

"Well, I think that worked quite well," John comments as they get in.

"Yes, quite an ingenious plan." Sherlock can't quite switch off his sarcastic tongue.

He enjoys the silence for a moment as the cabbie heads for home. Then John suddenly says, "Sherlock, something's wrong, isn't it?

"What makes you say that?"

John narrows his eyes. "You've been acting oddly."

"Oddly?"

"Odd for you. It seems like all you've been concentrating on is, well, me."

Sherlock pulls a disdainful face, as if to suggest this is a rather conceited statement.

"You haven't had proper work for weeks. Usually it's all about the work, remember?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I remember that."

"What's wrong?" John's tone is hushed and he looks pointedly up at Sherlock. "Is something going on? Something you can't tell me about?"

"You've deduced this from my concentrating more on you recently?" Sherlock tries to sound flippant for the sake of whoever was listening. He had no idea whether John's clothes were bugged or whether they were being followed. Perhaps it's even the cabbie. It wasn't a risk he was willing to take. "This is just like that time in Glasgow with the smugglers. You're overreacting. You need to trust me."

But a light has come on in John's eyes. Sherlock thinks he may be understanding him.

"Don't bring it up again," Sherlock insists. "You sound even less intelligent than usual." He can tell John has got the message.

Something _is_ going on that he is unable to talk about, just like there had been that time in Glasgow. "Maybe your brother would agree with me," John says.

"If you speak to Mycroft about me, I will kill you," Sherlock promises, hoping his eyes is getting this message across to John. "Or anyone for that matter. You will die."

"Fine," John says, slowly. "Fine, I get it. I just want you to be safe."

"I just want you to be safe," Sherlock responds, and he takes John's hand, not as a calculated move, not considering how John may or may not react. He just does it. He's rewarded with a smile.

A tightness creeps into his chest. He hates the idea that there's someone watching them right now, listening to their conversations. He wants their life back. He wants their privacy back. He wants to kiss John and know that it's just about them and nothing else.

"What should we do, then, now?" John asks. He's still searching for answers, Sherlock knows. He wants to help with whatever is wrong. Sherlock wonders how many hints he could get away with.

"What normally happens at the end of a date?" he asks.

"Seriously? You're really taking a shine to this dating thing."

For once, Sherlock doesn't know what to say. John wants some explanation, but what could Sherlock say that wouldn't be too much? "John," he shakes his head, leaning across towards him, "it's not about dating. It's about wanting to spend time with you." He kisses the doctor. It is fleeting and their lips only connect for a moment but it sends a thrill through Sherlock's whole body. Then he murmurs, "and you wanting to spend time with me."

"I do," John confirms and their lips meet again.

_Just say it. Just say it, and this can all be over._


End file.
